Lost
by latergator
Summary: Adventure, excitement, mystery, drama, and discovery—all in one tale. Who could pass that up?. Read and review, if you please.
1. Chapter 1

Master and Commander owes all to the genius of Patrick O'Brian; I own none of it. In fact, in the mind of my fine felines, I (being their servant and plaything) own not even myself.

* * *

Waste is a terrible thing to mind, and Kate minds very, very much this waste of her chance for a calm moment. Surrounded by the noise of fellow travelers, she wishes each and every one of them entirely mute. A rush of tremors moving lengthwise through the craft raise small cries of irritation, adding to the din, but rouse no particular notice. Passengers read, eat, sleep (to Kate's amazement), talk with or ignore each other as their individual natures incline. A woman, complaining at length about her husband's attentiveness to the minister's wife, pauses only enough to regain her wind before continuing a litany of resentment. Kate, searching through her pack for anything (anything!) that would block her ears, thought the husband could perhaps be forgiven should the lady in question prove to be sweet and soft spoken. 

This reading, eating, talking, sleeping would have continued—should have continued—but for a sudden violent jolt. Passengers fall, bags fall, silence falls—a stunned silence the length of a mere inhalation—then a clamor of alarm and demands for explanation. In the dimming light and the now continuous shudder of the craft, the crew call for attention, call for order, but receive neither.

Kate, stretching to her tallest, sees nothing but the backs of the people before her. With a lurch, a sense of motion gone awry, and a deep groan not unlike the cry of a wounded beast, the near outer wall splits. For an instant, the rift frames open sky. Then water—no, not water, mere water does not descend with such ferocious intent—the sea, the hungry sea surges through. Caught in the crowd of bodies, Kate's panic grows as her feet leave the floor. Her ribs, resisting the crush, creak as breath is forced from her body. A rush of water fills the craft's hindmost section. Then the sea, momentarily deprived of access by the rolling of the craft, it's onslaught cut short, sends waves thundering against the sides. Kate, pummeled by flailing limbs as others fall, is held against the wall by the strap of the pack slung across her body. With a twisting writhe she can just see the broken beam that has caught the thickly woven pack. Pulling herself over, freezing in alarm when the woven strands stretch and then begin to break, Kate ever so slowly rights herself. Another pull and she drags the pack free, the force of the effort spilling her through the rift—now a deep chasm—into the gray choppy sea. An explosion to the right and a wall of heat send her diving below the surface.

Surfacing, foul fumes burn her throat and dim her vision. Through the smoke, only the forward section of the craft is visible. This floats for a moment, but only a moment, before beginning its slow slide beneath the waves. From the wailing tangle of passengers struggling to escape, one last man thrashes free and launches outward, almost clearing the wreckage. Crashing into Kate, his legs still trapped in sinking debris, the man grasps at her hair, her shoulder, and then his hands lock on her arm as he is pulled under. Caught by his grip and the frantic wrench at her arm, Kate is pulled after. His grip fails, but only as his hands drag along the length of her arm to tighten painfully at her wrist. Through the darkening, deepening water, Kate glimpses his face, dark, one eyebrow made quizzical by a bisecting scar. As their eyes meet, with a look equal parts fear and resolution he releases her. In the fluid landscape of debris and the turmoil of currents, Kate knows not which direction is skyward; she can only feel against her skin the certainty of fathoms of heavy clinging water above and below. It is luck, and only luck, that brings her to the surface.

The surface is a nightmare scene, chaotic to the eyes and overwhelming to the heart. Paddling one-armed—the other deadened from the shoulder down—Kate moves toward the sound of moaning, another woman's voice, to which Kate adds screams as her hand pushes along a shattered lifeless body. When Kate's gasps and sobs subside, all is quiet. Too quiet. Though Kate calls and calls until only a harsh croak remains of her voice, silence is the only answer. Kate waits, half supported by wreckage, staring into the empty sky and the equally empty horizon.

The sea mirrors the sky which mirrors the sea—all gray, a sullen gray so dense that it seems to almost have substance and weight. A brief rain quenches Kate's thirst, gives her a sense of direction. Over and over she pictures rescue, each time in greater detail, willing it with the entire force of her stubborn strength, until surely this time on opening her eyes it will be true. How long has she waited? In this timeless place, it could be hours, it could be days. Time and movement are a language she no longer comprehends. Staring into the gray expanse, Kate is filled with the conviction that should her grip loosen, she will fall into the sky. Drifting—her mind filled with thoughts of weightlessness, with yearning for flying free—what her senses say, what her mind says, all become true and all become false.

Kate no longer knows herself. Are these her hands? Is this her breath? Or is this a dream? Is this noise the call of birds or the call of voices? Is this a hand across her throat? Hands tugging at her, pulling at her clenched fingers? Then flying, this smooth movement skimming across the water must be flying. And this is falling, but falling upwards to a place where warmth and weight cover her. Hands pull at her arms, at her shoulders from too many directions. In panic, she bites the nearest and then falls. A cup pressed to her lips fills her mouth with water. This is wood, aged and worn, against her palms. These are sails, not wings, above her. The roar of noise resolves to voices and then to the words "a grim night's work". A stern face swims into view, quickly followed by another wearing spectacles. (How odd, she thinks, to imagine spectacles.) Again hands upon her, a voice urging her to be still, and a cup pressed to her lips filled this time not with the water, but a chokingly bitter fluid. As her awareness dims, Kate grasps tight to one word, her inner voice repeating it over and over—lost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Query**—Can something as distracting and consuming as writing Patrick O'Brian fanfiction really be called a _hobby_? Perhaps with greater experience I will be able to more gracefully slide this new pursuit into a life already bursting with work, school, friends, and fascinations (not to mention the random flights of research stemming from curiosity—Why oak for the British ships? Why did it take so long to conquer scurvy? What was gaol fever? What was used as toothpaste in the 1800s?...and on and on and on.) Alas, updates must match breaks in work and school.

* * *

Waking, Kate is slow to accept awareness. What she hears—distant muted voices, thuds, slow deep creaks, and (could it be?) a bell—makes no sense. Her eyes are open and in fact have been open for some time, but all within sight confounds. In the dim light, rough wood beams close overhead sway from side to side; no, it is she who sways from side to side. The coppery smell of blood and a strangled groan of pain nearby bring a cascade of memories and with them alarm. A rough movement, begun to propel her upright, in the next instant sends Kate falling in a confused snarl of blankets, canvas, and rope, the floor rising to meet her in a jarring, breath-stealing blow. 

The sound and vibration of steps coming closer herald an approach. Squinting in the brightening of light, Kate stares at the slight, anxious man drawing back sheltering canvas. Naming himself Higgins, he clumsily tries to help her stand. His evident reluctance to touch her matches her dismay at the need for assistance. Her body, her very bones ache. Where the unfamiliar pale shirt and loose trousers do not cover, her skin is a welter of bruises and abrasions. To their mutual relief, a chair and a seated position are at last reached. Kate, watching Higgins closely, offers nothing in response to his questions; the confusion of her thoughts, the dryness of her throat, and the uneasy manner with which he regards her caution for silence. A deep hiss of pain accompanies Kate's first reach for water. Warily, Higgins moves the cup so it may be grasped with her other hand. Once, twice, and then, more slowly, a third time she empties the cup. Higgins studies her for a moment, absently rubbing his right hand, before producing a bowl. His expression betrays a determination that she will, if not enjoy, at least eat this; the sour smell rising from the bowl assures Kate that she most certainly will not. Kate for the first time speaks—a surprisingly forceful "No." Hesitantly, Higgins describes the wholesomeness of this offering, its benefit in her recovery, and how obliged he would be were she to try a swallow. His attempts at persuasion are interrupted by an unseen but distinctly weary authority,

"You shall eat it or Higgins will pinch your nose and pour it down your throat. It is the most roborative of portable soups, put up no more than six months past."

Flustered, Higgins, in a voice grown low, "Now, Miss, that's the doctor and you must be listening to his advice. He will attend you directly as he has finished with the surgery..."

"Higgins, what are you playing at?" still unseen, but exasperated now, "You of all men surely know her bark cannot be worse than her bite."

In haste to conceal his hand, Higgins succeeds only in drawing attention to the unmistakable half-circle bruise cresting the flesh of his right palm. A strained silence grows between the bewildered Kate and the mortified Higgins, each struggling to assume a semblance of nonchalant ease, until a thin, bespectacled, ill-featured man (with the look of one who dressed in the dark and never quite set himself aright) bursts in. His measured gaze takes in the untouched bowl of soup and the nervous start both give at his abrupt entrance. With a cursory wipe of his hands, he reaches for Kate's wrist, pausing as she shies from his touch.

"Your wrist, if you please."

Her face betraying a clear weighing of distaste at the state of the doctor's hands—the nails blood-rimmed—and his implacable manner, Kate reluctantly yields her wrist. Motionless, at least while the doctor focuses on his timepiece, Kate asks, "Who are you? What is this place?"

"A question! One would have thought you as disinterested as this chair." This weak attempt at levity a failure both for he and his solemn-eyed patient, releasing her arm, he replies, "I am Dr. Maturin, and you are aboard the HMS Surprise."

Kate, startled, her fingers beginning a nervous worrying of the hem of her shirt, responds, "I am on a boat?"

"Any pain when you breathe? Hold still, if you please. _Still_, meaning the _cessation_ of movement." His manner distracted, "No, most assuredly you are not on a boat. You are on a ship, and should you wish to avoid offending the crew you will take pains to remember the distinction."

Kate's confusion shifts suddenly into relieved comprehension, "I'm dreaming? Of course, I must be dreaming! Soon, very soon I will awake."

The doctor pauses and then begins a careful palpation of her skull, musing, "No doubt a more severe cranial injury than suspected. Or, perhaps, mental confusion as sequelae from shock. Pray show me your tongue. Or a possibly a lingering effect from the laudanum. What amazing dentition!"

Shocked, Kate pulls away, "Laudanum! "You drugged me?"

"Oh, yes, you became quite overwrought when brought aboard."

Softer, evading his touch, "You drugged me."

The doctor, halting his exam, addresses his assistant, "Higgins, attend to the distillation in the dispensary. It will be near ready."

Carefully pacing the removal of his glasses to fill the time until Higgins' exit, the doctor then gently states, "I regret to inform you that no others survived."

Kate, her attention captured by the precision of the doctor's movements, for a moment does not register the meaning of his words. Then, her restless movements stilled, her voice a mere whisper, she asks, "None?" Her shaking exhalation a moment later releases more than just breath, there is in that movement a diminishment.

A scratch at the door interrupts, a young gentleman, announcing, "With the captain's compliments, he would like to interview the lady without delay when she awakes."

"Yes, Mr. Calamy, I will speak with the captain directly," replies the doctor.

Mr. Calamy, turning to leave, finds the way blocked by curious onlookers. "Stand aside, Davis. I suspect you have seen a woman before."

"Not in the last six months, I ain't."

The doctor, calling to the dispensary as he departs, "Higgins, bring, what is your name.."—no answer—"Higgins, when you have finished with the decanting..," considering Kate's bowed head for a long moment, he adds, "and tidying the surgery, bring the lady to the great cabin." Turning to Kate, "You shall have some time alone here before your interview with the captain, but," he warns,"do not stir beyond these walls without Higgins."

* * *

Guided through corridors crowded with men busy at tasks of repair, the sailors and the ship equal in marks of injury and fatigue, Kate, catching looks of suspicion, and perhaps avarice, carefully fixes her attention to the seams backing Higgins' coat as they move through the dim and damp passageway. 

Halted at a sentry-guarded door, Kate hears clearly first the doctor's voice and then another of deeper pitch.

"Not quite alert, no doubt in some distress. I should like to bleed her. Shockingly bruised, lacerations, burns. Unusual tattoo across left wrist—circular divided by a wavering line and half dark colored. Most intriguing dentition, the..."

"Yes, Stephen, fascinating I am sure, but who is she?"

"Jack, I am at a stand to hazard an opinion as to her origins. I had not more than a moment before your summons came. Really, it was the most abominable timing. She speaks English not with a British or an Irish or a Scot accent nor in the manner of an American. Jack, she's barely sensible. I must insist on allowing time for a recovery of wits."

"Stephen, has it escaped your notice that we are hard pressed in these waters? Your concerns are noted, but necessity leaves no time for niceties."

Kate, alarmed by the overheard words and the slow change of the sentry's demeanor from curiosity in this visitor to stolid woodenness, rubs a shirt sleeve across her face, finger-combs her salt-stiffened hair, then sighs in resignation at the grubbiness of her bare feet.

After Higgins' hesitant knock, a deep voiced "Come."

Entering the room, the dazzling fall of sunlight athwart a floor patterned in painted squares strikes Kate's vision with a sensation near pain. Drawn to a bank of open inward-curving windows, she brushes past the waiting men to look out on the clear blue sky, eyes half-lidded against the brightness, breathing deeply of air which in its clarity dispels the damp mustiness that has accompanied every breath since waking. A moment passes. Another. Then a loud clearing of the throat sends her spinning in alarm, the abrupt motion remarkable in the pain caused and the effort required to stifle its outward signs, betrayed only by a whitening about the mouth.

Shapes seen mostly in outline as her vision adjusts resolve into men, men clad in worn uniforms, tired-looking men of determined countenance. One—active-looking though tending towards portliness in a uniform sporting an embarrassment of trim, tassels, and lace—advances towards her.

"How do you do, Miss. Captain Aubrey."

Taking in his habit of command and the deference of posture clear in those around him, Kate's manner becomes decidedly aristocratic, her outstretched hand halting the captain's motion, her voice crisp in reply, "Kathryn West."

Aubrey gazes at her hand in bemusement for a moment. There is nothing in her appearance which speaks of refinement or decorum or privilege; nothing, that is, except her apparent expectation.

Gingerly, Aubrey guides her to the table.

"Please won't you have a seat. Killick, some wine. Tell us, Miss West, what manner of ship were you on?"

"Ship?"

"How was your ship sunk?"

"Sunk?"

Puzzled, glancing towards the doctor, the captain asks, "Stephen, are you certain she understands English?"

A perish-the-thought wave of the hand is the doctor's only reply.

Turning again to Kate, the captain tries once more, "Your attackers, they were enemies of the King?"

"The King? The King of what?"

"Where are you from? From what land do you hail?"

Blank faced with distress, Kate looks from one man to another.

"Come, show us the port where your voyage began."

Charts are thrust before her. While the officers pull the charts first one way and then another (do the crowding men really presume this is helpful?), Kate traces shorelines, deciphers place names, until, looking up, her forehead creased into a frown, she asks,"What is this? These charts are wrong. They are wrong. Where is my home? What trick is this?" Pushing away from the table, toppling the chair, "Did you attack... No!" Kate backs away until brought short against the wall, dislodging the tidy array of gleaming swords.

"Which you will be minding the.." a man, his scowl made more terrible by ferocious facial hair, starts towards her.

The captain's "No, Killick, leave it" sounds in the same moment as Kate's panicked "No, don't touch me!"

Kate, whispers to herself, in soft repetition, "No, this is not real. Is not real."

"Stephen, if you please," directs the captain, his tone appalled.

"Yes, this was o'rhasty. Killick, pass the word to Higgins for the laudanum."

"No. No more drugs! No drugs!" One hand braced against the wall, the other warding, Kate pleads, "Wait!" She bows her head and then turns her face away. A slight trembling made clear in the shiver of locks parting at the nap of her neck yields a greater reproach than ever would sobs or cries.

Jack's dismay—his need for facts conflicting with his accustomed gallantry towards the fairer sex (and their equally accustomed welcoming response)—resolves to irritation when Kate turns to the men, to the captain, and, visibly bracing herself, declares,

"I have nothing to tell you."

"Where are you from?"

"I have no answer for you."

The beginning of thunder in his voice, the captain once again asks, "Who sunk you?"

Kate in precise articulation replies again "I. Have. No. Answer. For. You."

In this moment there is between the captain and this chance-found stranger the seed of true ill-will. Many words further are uttered (the primemost being "No") while nothing much is said. Rapidly exhausted with each other, the captain releases her to return to sickbay and himself to return to his ship's worries, which—be it the ship's foul bottom, the leaky water casks, or even the critical dearth of additional spars—in light of this quarter-hour last spent seem, by contrast, the lesser of two evils.

* * *

Later, at last free of observers, her belly drumskin-taut over the double portion of gruel she had been persuaded to eat, Kate's resolve—perhaps more aptly termed bravado—begins to fray. Without it, awash in pain and fear, she holds only confusion and a very human frailty. After several attempts—defeated by stiffness—to reclaim the swinging cot, Kate ceases to fight the irresistible weight of weariness. Hands still clutching the sides of cot, she slumps to floor. After a moment, she pulls the blanket free and slowly settles until lying braced against the corner. Eyes first stare blankly at beams overhead and then determinedly shut. But that is worse. With her eyes closed, nothing counters the flash of memories—water pouring over her fellow travelers, the cries of the dying, the feel of hands gripping her wrist. Grasping a hank of her hair, she gives it a vicious yank—"Wake up, Kate!" Pain, but no resolution of these surroundings into what is familiar. First one tear gathers, then another, and then yet another, spilling in a torrent, until at last Kate pulls folds of the blanket across her face to muffle desperate sobs, sobs that will not quiet until the mercy of sleep overtakes her. 


	3. Chapter 3

My thanks, MusicBoxDancer, juicyjuicy Mango's, and Wing Pikepaw (how your pen names charm!), for your reviews. Your encouragement is so welcome—it being harder than I suspected (first) to get on paper the chapters written in my imagination and (second) to stop tinkering with the words and post it already.

* * *

They whispered about her, the crew did, that she was mad, that she would bring bad luck, or—being her figure not overly feminine (though, in truth, this perhaps was due to the indifferent fit of the purser's slops)—that she were not a woman at all. This last speculation was favored most by Wilson and Reeve, whose preferred shipboard amusement was convincing Jimmy, one of the ship's simpletons, of many a fantastical thing. Pressed into service (probably to the great relief of those who had the care of him landward), strong as an ox, Jimmy was a handy enough fellow hauling on a line, provided he was pushed or pulled into a useful position. In their time, Wilson and Reeve had sent Jimmy diving into the sea for mermaids, searching the ship for the gunner's daughter (who they swore was waiting to give him a kiss), and worried him with tales of a bunghole in the hull which if uncorked would send them all to Davy Jones' locker. Being made game of, when he twigged to it, sent great grieved tears running down Jimmy's usually amiable face or, were he in the grog, his great fists flailing wildly. 

One certainty was shared by all—there was no predicting what the lady would do next. The story of her contrariness with the captain had passed quickly through the ship, nearly outpacing the event itself, and grew more exuberant with each telling. Had she really leapt onto the table, calling for the captain's surrender? Wiser heads thought not though many (the tale having a robust life) were ready to swear they had with their own eyes seen her brandish a sword or with their own ears heard her call down the wrath of heaven. There being a certain objectionable quality to the lady's uncommon lack of gratitude—she having been plucked from a watery death, after all—the crew were minded to view her, from a distance, with misgiving.

* * *

Kate, in careening flight out of sickbay early the following morning, did not note the crew eyeing her with agitation, scrambling out of her path. Her bleary-eyed disarray and wild-eyed panic only added to the disinclination to seize her, each relying on his neighbor to step into the fray. One grizzled seahand, in haste to withdraw, trod fully upon the hand of a messmate, exciting immediate rancor (and later drunken reconciliation). Trailing a wake of astonished midshipmen, a young marine sentry and his calls of "Miss, Miss", Kate gained the larboard gangway before being recaptured, a full force collision with the officer of the watch finally halting her. 

With his cheerful manner and kind eyes—lacking only a placard reading "trustworthy" to be the very picture of reassurance—Mr. Mowett, a steadying hand at Kate's elbow, began a surprised (and, truth be told, somewhat flustered) "beg your pardon; William Mowett; your servant; honored by this meeting" but was cut short by Kate's panicked, "That noise! Are we attacked?"

"No, Miss." Adopting a calming paternal air quite at odds with his youth (and the fact that she almost certainly was his senior in years), Mowett explained, "the men are at the deck with the holystones."

"We are not under attack?"

"No, you are quite safe," Mowett replied, the freshening wind drawing his attention to the mizzenmast. "Mr. Boyle will see you back to sickbay."

Mr. Boyle, in some distress with the unexpectedness of this charge, came near himself requiring assistance reaching sickbay, the mechanics of breathing returning to him only on descent to the crew berth. Fortunate that, as after discharging his duty, he found every breath needed to answer the flurry of questions from his excitable shipmates.

* * *

The captain, regretting the tenor of their first meeting, had set himself the task at the next occasion of putting the lady at ease—inquiring after her health, her sleep, her appetite. But Kate would not be soothed, she would not be lulled, and she would not be calmed. With every evasive response, Kate's regard of the captain as a villain was made clear as a shout. Jack, a man made for friendship, for camaraderie, felt this a blow more deeply for all it was foreseen. There was none in the service more ready to dismiss danger in the cause of duty; there was none in the service less able to withstand the attack on his own good opinion as occasioned by an angry, fearful woman. Each skirmish left Jack more and more out of patience—as the crew noted with muttered cautions of "watch for squalls" and "goldilocks on a tear". 

This tendency towards aggravation was noted, too, during a pause in a late night assault on _Boccherini_'s Sonata in D Major (wherein Jack, irritated, had wielded his bow with the forcefulness of a sword in deadly battle, lending the meditative _Grave_ an aggressive air quite unintended by the composer), with Stephen finally observing, "She has challenged you, brother."

"Indeed, and with such a baleful eye that were she that snaky Grecian lady I would most certainly have been turned to stone." A witticism involving Miss West in the forecastle and petrified enemy ships came to Jack, but he could not quite flash it out, and it was, perhaps, ungallant and best left unsaid. "Set her off on the next shore!—She cares not where!—Can she be in earnest?" Jack asked, a vigorous flourish of his bow punctuating each statement. "Tell me, Stephen, is she perhaps of any strategic concern?"

"Another Louisa Wogan? No, no, she has not the inclination of an agent. She requested and required me—crashingly unsubtle—to stop asking questions as her only recourse was silence, anything else necessarily being a lie and she—most emphatically—finds nothing more entirely despicable than a deceiver."

Jack, his ear attuned by long acquaintance (and his knowledge of the doctor's discrete forays to the confoundment of Napoleon's power—sometimes requiring the doctor to assume habits, actions, and methods outside natural inclination), caught a hint of sourness in Stephen's reply. "Ah," he remarked inwardly, "she has crossed his hawse with that one."

"She is not of _intelligent _interest, but a mystery nonetheless," continued Stephen. "Her pack yielded only further puzzle with its a cunning closure device—interlocking teeth, genius! A journal or diary of sorts that sea water had returned to a near pulp state..."

"Enough," declared Jack, leafing through the musical sheets, taking up his violin. "Though I regret the imposition, I leave her to your care." Then, suspecting he may have been too abrupt, Jack added, "I have set a marine sentry for her safety."

"A veritable dueña, though more martial and, I dare say, hirsute than is custom," was Stephen's sole response as they launched into the lovely _Vivace_, which now—with Miss West concluded, dismissed, and dispatched—flowed between the stringed voices in graceful lively chase.

* * *

Her pack, the torn side having spilled most of its contents, retained few useful items, most of which Kate hastily bundled away, the familiar sights coming too near to unleashing tears—one, a twilight blue scarf, a gift intended for her mother; another, a Baroque-style maple recorder, the wood having swollen and split with immersion, heartbreaking in its ruin. Kate, with gentle Padeen's assistance, sorted through a bewildering assortment of wares. Shifting yet another parcel of linen handkerchiefs ("Who would ever require such an abundance?" Kate wondered), she marveled at the delicacy of a carved comb and at the generosity of such a treasure freely given. Her cabin likewise was a gift; vacated by the captain's clerk, who had nobly volunteered to bunk with the master's mate, a move soon to be deeply regreted for the master's mate had the unfortunate habit of sniffing—sniff, sniff, sniff when amused; sniff, sniff, sniff when perplexed; sniff, sniff, sniff even when sleeping—a habit tiresome under any circumstances, but in close quarters near a justification for violence. Kate, surveying her cabin, saw it not as close, or cramped, or spartan, but as private—privacy being more dear to her than any amount of linen, any delicacy of design. Her need for solitude had sent her prowling the ship at unusual times, turning up in unconsidered places. Killick's bellow this morning when he discovered her in the galley, apparently communing with the kettles, had roused the whole ship. Her marine guard, knowing Killick's temperament, had piously stationed himself just outside the steward's domain. Kate, having noted many an odd fact in her foray to the galley, examined her next meal (burgoo, this being a Thursday) with a decidedly suspicious eye.

* * *

While the passage of time healed the pain in her body and began its work in blunting the sharp edges of the grief in her heart, Kate's days became unchanging, monotonous, but for the persistent infliction, each afternoon with tea, of the doctor's company—an occurrence Kate both dreaded and anticipated. Dreaded—for she knew that, though the doctor no longer pressed her for particulars of her past, any detail thoughtlessly escaping her restraint in conversation would not escape his keen notice. And anticipated—for she feared, in loneliness, she would soon resort to conversing with the ship's cat. This rangy tom, well aware of his own eminence as a champion ratter, would not suffer a caress, but could be lured with a bit of pork skimmed from her meal to sit for a companionable moment across the length of the cabin. Kate could not find it in herself to be amused with the contradiction of her loneliness and her aversion to company, each being of equal strength, equal urgency, and in direct opposition. 

In company, Kate held herself stiff, held herself quiet, and, as much as she was able, held herself very, very angry—anger being a force with which to conceal her fear. With the loss of contesting the captain, Kate's anger had grown harder to sustain. With the bustle of industry all about, Kate, her gaze never quite settling on those around her, drifted in an island of silence. The men eyed her with suspicion, but only from the corner of their eyes, there being strong orders not to be leering at the lady. When Kate found herself with food, she ate (a little). When she was in her cabin, she slept (a little). When she was on deck (trailed by a bored sentry), she gazed at the sea, at the horizon, and at the sky for long, long spans of time.

The doctor, noting with exasperated relief that Miss West finally had stopped scratching her near healed lacerations, found new cause for concern in her dark-circled eyes, her pale color, and her desultory replies to his polite inquiries. "How benignly she gazes right through me," Stephen reflected, "and she has shed near a stone in weight. I must stir her torpor." A brief inner debate weighing the use of gentian versus the use of quassia resulted in a joint concoction, which, unfortunately, did not answer. Indeed, it could be said that Miss West grew very low in spirit.

* * *

The doctor, enjoying a portion of his rapidly dwindling supply of tobacco, considered the utility of elixir of vitriol as he paced the forecastle. Surprised by how late the hour had grown, he recognized Jimmy's voice, inebriated and jolly, calling for birthday wishes from his companions. "Foolish fellow," Stephen sadly noted, "how he will regret the excess in the morning—again."

Jimmy, apparently a most unusual fellow with birthdays every fortnight or so, had claimed from his mates the indulgence of a portion of their rum; not that, with the liberal (or illiberal in the view of some) allotment, anyone went dry. By moonrise, Jimmy, judging by the glazed look in his wide staring eyes, had achieved a fertile mix of intoxication and incredulity which would soon yield to sedation.

Stephen, his ruminations having drifted from vitriol to the philosopher's stone to the folly of greed and false hope for riches, had unthinkingly consumed not one, not two, but three thin cigars before making his way to retire to bed. Calls for the doctor caught him just at reaching the lower deck. Hurrying to the forward ladder (the calls coming from below), he feared the lure of the spirit room had tempted some fool to folly, but when he reached the shadowed orlop—an overturned lantern blessedly extinguished—he found great Jimmy laid out on the floor, blood covering his face; Wilson bent over grasping his privates and gasping for breath; and Reeve clutching at his right knee, but on spying Wilson in agony breaking out in boozy laughter.

The doctor, focusing on the wounded, brushed past young Williamson, who, tender in his midshipman's authority, was questioning the men, "Silence, Reeve. What has happened here?"

Miss West, until now unnoticed, stepped from a darkened corner, her cheeks bright colored, her eyes intent, and answered, "I believe these men misjudged the current and were tumbled for their mistake."

Such a preposterous statement (nautically speaking) did not pass the gathering sailors, one going as far as to mutter "Which there is no current here, not even a swell (daft lubber)" while hoisting up his fallen mate, then adding "you clumsy idiot" to his groaning burden.

The marine sentry hurrying to the scene, shirt untucked, already regretting entirely his earlier overconsumption of Lee's Patent Bilious Pills, grew red and then pale at the sight of this mayhem and confusion until he spied the lady apparently unperturbed by what she saw.

Williamson, turning to Kate, began a stammered apology, "men fighting amongst themselves—the drink—most regrettable," then, gathering his thoughts, meaning to be consoling, remarked, "Miss West, this is a most distressing sight for a lady."

"Distressed wasn't quite the word I would use to describe Miss West in that moment," thought Stephen as he followed the parade of men to sickbay. "Determined might be a better fit."

* * *

"How is Jimmy? Is his nose broken?" came a soft inquiry as the doctor returned order to sickbay. Turning, Stephen found Miss West hovering in the doorway (the marine sentry conspicuous in his attendance). 

"No," answered Stephen, noting Miss West's subtle ease of tension at the news, "traumatic inflammation of the paranasal meatus and perhaps exacerbated deviation of the nasal septum. Keep him here until he has recovered from this night's drink. No doubt we shall all be subjected to great roaring snores. Wilson and Reeve, on the other hand.."

Miss West, interrupting, "I do not care to hear of Wilson or Reeve."

Moving into the room, to Jimmy's side, Miss West, her fingertips resting gently on his forearm, addressed him softly, "Jimmy, I am so sorry you were hurt."

"Miss?" Jimmy looking to her in confusion.

"Jimmy, you fell." Repeating with quiet force, very near an order, "You fell." Holding Jimmy's gaze, Miss West murmured, "rest now and feel better in the morning."

Falling into step as she moved toward the door, Stephen quietly remarked, "The current must have been strong to fell three men, fools though they may be, three strong men nonetheless," and caught a quick sidelong glance and an even quicker look of consternation before Miss West hurriedly departed.

* * *

Kate, sleepless, her thoughts untangled by a night of fevered deliberation, greeted the morning with a certainty of what she had to do. Who she was going to do it to was never in question. 


End file.
